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Paradise Lost/Issue 1
This is Issue #01 of Paradise Lost, titled You Had Me At Hello. This is the first issue of Volume 01 and was released on August 16, 2015. Synopsis Several months into the apocalypse, the pilot chronicles a day in the life of the Fosters, a city-folk turned suburban family headed by patriarch, Jack. Eager to head south before winter hits, their plans change when an ambush leaves them low on supplies. Cast Starring Oscar Isaac as Jack Foster Rowan Blanchard as Sam Foster Rebecca Hall as Rachel Foster You Had Me At Hello A lone truck rests at the edge of the woods. An old red paint job, four doors, one broken window covered with a plastic bag. The full moon shining down between the mess of tree branches provides just enough light for the two bodies -- a man and a woman -- sitting on the truck’s roof, back to back. A hunting rifle stands between his legs, the barrel resting against his shoulder, but she's settled on something less obvious and easier to handle -- a subcompact pistol, holstered at her waist. Jack and Rachel Foster. They’ve been together for nearly fifteen years and married for over a decade, yet they’ve barely hit their thirties. Despite the expected turbulence that comes with marriage so young, they’ve gotten this far -- chances are they’ll hold out even longer. A kid definitely complicated matters, a kid they didn’t exactly plan for, but one that brought absolute happiness and motivation to a pair of lost and untried nineteen year olds. "What should we do for her birthday?" he asks. “I've been trying to figure something out," she says. "Can't think of anything." “We’re terrible parents.” “To be fair, our options are limited.” “We should be creative about this.” “...Should we make her a mud cake? With twig candles?” “I’d consider it.” “Maybe I could find her some makeup. That'd be nice. Nail polish, too. Probably a lot of it left.” “Makeup? What’s she need makeup for?” “I could teach her how to use it -- she can practice.” “Who’s she need to look cute for?” “You never know when a dashing zombie might stumble out of the woods and sweep her off her feet," she says. "He'd have his hair swooped to the side, you know, to cover his rotting eye socket, and we'll meet his well-to-do zombie parents -- " "Okay, I got it -- girls wanna be girls." “Yeah. It's fun. "It's fun?" “You get to feel pretty for a little while. God, especially now.” “You’re pretty enough. So’s she.” “You think I'm pretty?” she asks jokingly, feigning sheepishness. "You're... you're alright. Your eyes are a little too close together but I've made peace with it -- " She scoffs. He turns slightly and says, "Here, look," tapping her on the shoulder. She turns too. "You're here." He lifts his right hand high, palm facing down. "Way up here. Ten outta ten, hot stuff. Okay? And then -- " He places his left hand under his right, barely a space between them. "That's Angie." "Angie?" "Jolie." "Angelina Jolie? You're not on a nickname basis with Angelina Jolie." "I could be. You don't know what I do in my free time." "Jolie, huh? Okay, here's you -- " She lifts her own hand. "Ten out of ten, hot stuff. And here's George -- " She places one hand below the other. Barely a space between them. "Clooney?" "George from the office." "George from the... Who's George from the office?" "You met him once." "I guess he didn't make a great impression then." "I can't believe you don't remember. He was really tall. Six-three, I think...?" "So? I'm secure. I'm a little man, and that's okay -- " "You're not that small. And no one said you weren't secure -- " "I'm just letting you know. You can't tease me about it because I am secure." "Hun, there's no George from the office. I was talking about Clooney." He smirks. "That wasn't nice." "I thought you were secure." "I am. George from the office..." He scoffs. "Tall. Psh. Here, I'll tell you why it's a soft spot. And I've never told you this, but when you first came to school, Gerry told me you only dated guys over six-feet. So I said, 'Forget it' and didn't talk to you for a year." "Why would you believe that?" "Because you had the... the football guy, I don't remember his name. And Peter Larsen." "The football guy was Mark Abel and he was -- not even kidding -- one of the dumbest people I've ever met. And Larsen was... he was okay. Boring. Nothing special." "But they were tall." "They just so happened to be tall." "And up until you met me, had you dated anyone shorter than six-feet?" "No." "Okay. Then my fear was warranted." "It wasn't! I can't believe you thought I was that shallow." "Honestly, though, you have to admit you thought it was a little weird dating someone shorter than you." "It's barely an inch difference." "And if it wasn't for that inch, I would've made my move sooner." "You didn't make a move, you tapped me on the shoulder and stuttered before you could even say hello." "It worked,” he says. “We're sitting here right now and we've got... offspring." Rachel smiles. "Offspring." "That's what she is." "Why are you dehumanizing our child?" she says, laughing. He starts to laugh, too. "She's our seedling," he says, and for some reason they both find this absolutely hilarious, and they burst into hysterics. "Shhh -- " He presses his finger to his lips, and she covers her mouth with her hand. "She's our larvae," Rachel adds. She slaps her hand over her mouth again, and he bites his knuckles. "This isn't even funny," he says. "Why are we laughing?" "I don't know -- " She wipes at her eyes, letting out a sigh once they've both calmed down. They don't laugh like that anymore. He has this... weightless feeling all of a sudden. It happens sometimes, like a random rush of euphoria, and it feels so damn good. Even knowing it won't last, even knowing he's going to start tomorrow with the same sense of emptiness he woke up with this morning -- none of it can drain this overwhelming state of bliss. It only happens sometimes. Very rarely. But it happens. He leans over and kisses her because there's nothing else he'd rather do. And right then, everything's good again. --- The next morning, Rachel slowly opens one of the trucks rear doors. “Hey, ladybug -- get on up.” Sam -- a tall young girl, twelve years old, and the perfect combination of both Jack and Rachel -- sleeps soundly in the backseat, and Rachel gently shakes her shoulder. The girl turns in her seat, pulling her blanket up a little further. Behind them, Jack works on cooking breakfast over a small fire, ever so often wiping away the sweat on his forehead. “Now?” Sam asks. “Yes, now.” “What time is it?” “Time to get up. Breakfast’s almost done.” “Few minutes...please…” Pause. Rachel considers it. “I want your butt by the campfire in ten. Okay?” “''Okay…''” Rachel keeps the door open, then walks the few meters to the tiny campfire, where Jack sits and watches bits of squirrel meat sizzle in a pan. “I gave her a few more minutes,” she says, sitting down next to him. “It’s almost ten," he says. “It’s only a couple minutes." He pushes the meat around with a wooden spoon, swipes at his forehead with his sleeve. “This isn’t summer vacation.” “It’s not her fault. She’s not eating enough -- and she’s growing, she’s developing. Of course she's tired." “I think,” he says, handing her the spoon, “she’s been gettin’ a little lazy. And I’m gonna nip it in the bud now.” “Jack -- “ But he’s already on his feet, wiping the dirt from his pants and headed to the truck. “Samantha,” he says, peeking his head inside and giving the window a knock. “Up. Now.” “Mom said ten minutes -- “ “I don’t care what Mom said. I wanna set up the traps by noon and you’re coming with.” She sighs and rises to sitting, rubbing at her eyes. “There we go,” he says. “What a trooper. Let’s go.” He opens up the door a little wider, and she puts on her slippers before stepping onto the grass. Not a second before she’s outside, he picks her up, tossing her onto his shoulder. She squeals in protest and begs to be put down, but he carries her all the way to the fire. “Special delivery.” “Put me down -- “ “Honey, should I put her down?” “Put her down," Rachel says, grabbing a few paper plates from a nearby backpack. “If you say so," he says, and he sets her down on her feet. Almost immediately, Sam groggily asks, “What’s wrong with you?” “I’m fine,” he says, sitting, and Sam follows suit. “What’s the matter with you?” “''Nothing''.” “Why’re you sleeping so late, morning breath?” “You’re annoying.” “Here,” Rachel says. She’s supplied two plates with a decent amount of meat, and hands one to each. “Look at that,” Jack says, taking his plate. “Look at that beautiful sear." Although they're still hot, he pops a few into his mouth. It's actually bland, tasteless, and a bit too chewy, but it's more fun to pretend it tastes like chicken. --- "What's this word?" Sam asks. She sits on the grass and lifts her workbook to show Rachel, pointing at the middle of the passage. "It starts with 'N'." "Narcissistic," Rachel says from her lawnchair. "It's when someone's self-absorbed. In love with themselves." This is their routine now -- Monday through Friday, Sam spends an hour or two on the subject of the day. In today's case: reading. About a month ago, they came across a bundle of test-prep workbooks left behind in a department store, ranging from sixth to twelfth grade and focusing on reading, language arts, science, and math. The higher level books haven't proven useful thus far (even Rachel and Jack are perplexed by some of their content), but the middle grade curriculum matches almost perfectly with what Sam would be learning in school. "Thanks." Sam quickly circles one of the answers as Rachel returns to her novel. Rachel notices the movement out of the corner of her eye. "Was that one of the questions?" "Just one." "You're not supposed to ask me for answers -- that's not how you learn, cheater." "You told me." "Because you tricked me. Cheater. Now you're gonna do another passage." "That's ten questions -- " "Do 'em. Or you can wait 'til tomorrow and I'll tack on another five." "You know that's gonna take me forever." "We've got all the time in the world. Get to it." Rachel ignores Sam's frustrated groan and again returns to her book, draping one leg over the other. Sam's struggled with words all her life -- she can speak fine, but when it comes to actually reading, it's always a hurdle. Her small school didn't have much support for dyslexic children, either; the school in Orton, the town they’d moved to only a month before the outbreak, had a promising program, but Sam was always petrified by the ‘special-ed’ label. Rachel peeks over her book every few minutes to see if Sam's making any progress -- but she isn't. After fifteen minutes, she's still stuck on the same question. "Do you need help?" "I'm fine." "You sure? Nothing wrong with asking for help." She's always had that problem, more so once her disability was diagnosed. Rachel thought she'd be less embarrassed when dealing with her own parents, but she's just as reluctant for assistance as she was in school. Some unfortunate mix of stubbornness, determination, and shame. "This one's asking for the main idea of lines 27 through 45," Sam says, finally. "Let me see," Rachel says. Sam hands her the book and she skims the lines, muttering under her breath. "...'diverse and viable lion populations before the species becomes critically threatened with extinction...'" She finishes the rest and continues, "Okay. Number nine. They know we don't give a crap about lions, but all they're asking is, what the hell is this guy talking about? That's every main idea question ever. What you can do is pull out some of the keywords. 'Lion.' 'Extinction' -- see, they said extinction three times in under twenty lines. 'Consequences.' Uh... 'Decline.' 'Dwindling.' You see what I mean? Then look back at your answer choices and see what makes the most sense." She hands the workbook back and watches her deconstruct the question. Eventually, she circles one. "What'd you go with?" Rachel asks. "B." "And there you go. Try the main idea ones and go back to vocab later." Without any audible complaint (there might have been an eye roll, but Rachel can't tell), Sam moves on to the next question. Rachel watches as she answers three in a row at a decent pace. "I don't want this to be like school," Rachel says, "but we've gotta do this. I know it sucks." “Can I take a break?” “Finish that page for me, okay? And actually try, don’t go circling random answers. I can tell when you do that. I’m not an idiot.” “But I know you’re gonna let me get away with it.” “Just finish,” Rachel says. This girl really loves to push her luck. After about ten minutes, Rachel looks to her left and spots Jack sitting up against a tree stump after a completed workout, chugging from a jug of water. “Keep working, I’ll be back in a second.” She closes her book, tosses it on the chair, and walks over. The second she’s gone, Sam flips to the back of the book to search for as many answers as she can before she comes back. That lady’s too easy to fool. --- Jack watches Rachel approach, using his hand to block out the piercing brightness of the sun. Her looming presence eventually creates a shadow and he lets his arm drop to his side, basking in the shade. “What’s up?” he calls out. “When are you taking her into the woods?” “Uh…” He squints at his watch. “Like an hour.” “I’m up for it, if you wanna take a break.” “Nah, it’s fine.” “You sure? You look tired.” “I wanna get as much water as we can before we head out.” He has the strength to carry a few more full jugs than she can, so they might as well make use of their proximity to freshwater. “How’s she doing today?” “She’s frustrated,”Rachel says. “I don’t blame her.” “And you’re making sure she finishes it all?” “She takes shortcuts sometimes… but she gets it done.” Jack watches Sam down by the truck underline something in her workbook. Some kind of talk is in order. A father-daughter heart to heart. He’s not particularly good at those kinds of conversations, but outstanding circumstances like a zombie apocalypse pretty much call for them. “What’s the matter?” Rachel asks. “Nothin’,” he says. Rachel laughs at him. “Alright, weirdo… Take a dive in the creek while you’re out there, you smell terrible.” “Back at ya,” he calls after to her as she walks away, and he brings the jug back to his lips. --- Jack and Sam walk side by side through the woods, with Jack occasionally knocking away a low hanging branch. Even then, he always misses some, and he's been whacked in the nose a few too many times for his liking. Comes with the territory. "You doing alright?" Jack asks. "Yeah." "You've been acting a little... not yourself." "Just tired." "Sleepy tired or like... 'I'm tired of this shit' tired?" "A little bit of both." "Same here," he sighs. "But... we've gotta deal with it. We've gotta do what we gotta do. We've gotta get up in the morning and be ready to conquer the day." "Kinda hard when every day's the same." "Yeah, I'm just talkin' out of my ass," he says. There's a pause as they continue through the woods, their steps crunching the leaves. "Mom says you're not eating enough, is that true?" "I'm fine." "Be honest, Sam." Pause. "You guys have to eat, too -- " "But are you going to bed hungry?" "Sometimes -- " "Why don't you say anything?" "'Cause that means I have to take you and Mom's share." He looks down at her for a moment, silent. The answer is admirable -- but he still failed at feeding his own kid, for who knows how long. That's what hits him. "Sam... it's not about us. You're the kid, you're the priority here. We take care of you." "I'm not, like, -- starving." "But -- you're mom said it best, alright. You're growing and you're developing, you know, hormones and all. Your body needs food. Energy. We can't be sluggish out here." "Okay." "Okay. You gonna tell me when you're hungry?" "Yeah." "Are you really?" "Yeah, Dad." "Okay," he says, putting his around her shoulder as he walks, and he gives her a peck on the top of the head. --- Jack and Sam lie on their stomachs, watching as their trap -- fastened out of a cardboard box, a stick, and a rope -- has nearly reeled in an unsuspecting rabbit. A pile of almonds lies under the box, which is propped up by the stick. Jack’s hand tightens around the rope tied to the stick, and he waits for the perfect moment. Slowly, the rabbit hops closer and closer to the almonds until, finally, it stops to stuff a few in its mouth. Jack quickly pulls the rope, and the box falls and covers the cute little thing. They both rush over and place their hands on the box, which has begun to jerk with the movements of the rabbit inside. “He’s feisty,” Jack says. They wait until the animal calms down some, the jolts coming in longer and longer intervals. “Alright, you’re gonna lift it.” He moves his hands from the box and moves into a crouch. “Slow. Okay?” “Okay,” she says. “Tell me when.” “Now. Slow.” As she lifts the box, he inches his hands close. When a decent gap forms between the box and the ground, he shoves his hands forward, clutching onto the rabbit the second he feels a brush of fur. “Got it! I got it!” He stands up, his hands wrapped around its neck. Its hind legs kick wildly as it tries to struggle free. “You wanna do it?” Jack asks. “What? Kill it?” Sam says. “This is the kind of stuff you’re gonna have to do sooner or later.” “Dad -- “ She swallows hard, staring at its adorable, snow-colored face. “I know it’s cute. But it’s food. I don’t like doing it, either.” “I can’t,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s not gonna feel any pain. One, two, three -- pull. And it’s done.” “I can’t.” “Samantha -- “ It comes out harsher than intended, so he softens his voice. “Sam. If something ever happens to me, or to Mom, this is what you need to do. This is survival.” He nods as encouragement. “It’s sustenance. Not a pet.” He holds the rabbit out toward her, its legs still kicking. Eyes tearing up slightly, she stares at it for a long while. Then, she reaches out for it, taking it by its midsection and then moving her hand up to its neck. “You’ve seen me do it before,” he says. “One hand on the legs -- like that, good. Index finger and thumb around the neck. You’re gonna pull on the neck and the legs, and bend it back at the same time. But you’ve gotta pull hard.” She nods, and a tear slides down her cheek. “Sam -- “ “I’m fine,” she interrupts. “Can you count? Please?” “‘Course, sweetie, of course -- you ready?” “Just go.” “Okay -- on three. One, two, three -- “ She turns her head away. Pull. Crack. Just like that. She nearly drops it in shock, but he takes it from her before she can. Jack gives its neck a few more pulls for good measure. “Yep, he’s dead…” He pulls his bag off his shoulder and stuffs it inside. Hopefully they can catch a few more before it's time to head back. He zips up his bag, looking over at Sam. She rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand. He should say something supportive and sympathetic. Don't worry. It's okay. Instead, he settles on: "Let's not tell your mom about this." --- Rachel sits in the driver's seat, turning the radio's tuning knob, only to be met with static on each station. She gives up eventually and reaches into the backseat to shuffle through their miniscule collection of CDs. Most of it is Jack's music -- a lot of violent and obscure underground rap. She never understood the appeal. She settles on Who's Next by The Who and pops in the disc. The opening track plays on and she finds herself mumbling the words. "Travel south crossland... Put out the fire... Don't look past my shoulder... " It's been her favorite song for as long as she can remember. Jack argues that the synthesizer's annoying and hurts his ears, but he's nice enough to let her play it on repeat on some of the longer rides. It's not like he can play most of his music in front of Sam anyway. She leans back in her seat, arms folded across her chest. She doesn't let her eyes close -- she knows the moment she does, she'll fall asleep. It's been a struggle to rest at night lately -- something about the darkness, the eerie sounds of the woods, and always being afraid of what could be hiding around the corner. She keeps singing quietly to keep herself awake. It's easy enough -- she loves this album, and practically every word is engraved into her heart. When the first song ends, she plays it again, just so she can savor it some more. She doesn't know what it is, but intuition tells her something isn't right. She stops singing and, slowly, she moves her eyes over to her side view mirror. Her heart jumps into her throat when she sees the reflection of an approaching man, a shotgun clenched in his hands. He stops, eyes widening when he notices that she's spotted him. "Get out," he demands. "Slow." She realizes she's been holding her breath. She exhales shakily, places one hand on the door handle and the other on her holster. Some of her fear is quelled by the fact that he looks as afraid as she is. "I'm coming out," she calls. "Slow. Anybody else inside?" "No," she answers. She opens the door at a snail's pace, one foot on the ground, then the other, making sure her hand stays secure at her right hip. She can feel the violent thump of her heart in every fiber of her being. "Hands," he says. "I wanna see hands -- " She pulls her weapon, points it his way. He raises his gun higher, the barrel following her as she steps fully out of the vehicle. "What're you gonna do with that little thing, sweetheart?" he asks. "I've got a great shot at your left eye." "I will blow you away." "Out here? You really wanna do that?" "Doesn't matter to me. If the truck's got gas, I'll be outta here before they even smell me." "You're not taking the truck." "I am. And everything inside it." "You're not taking this truck," she says. "I'll give you ten seconds to put that down and step away -- " "You can't take this truck. I've got a family -- " "Congratulations, I've got one, too. And they're waiting for some good news." "Why don't you head back with some of your soul still intact? What about that?" "I'm tryin'," he says. "This can end without a scratch on your head but I will pull this God damn trigger and I don't want that." "You don't have to take it all -- " "Just step away from the fucking car!" he shouts. "It ain't fuckin' hard!" She stares at him, praying for some kind of miraculous change of heart. Nothing. "I'm putting it down," she says before slowly bending at her knees to set the pistol on the grass. "Stand over there." He gestures toward a nearby tree with the barrel of his gun. "Youre killing us," she says. "Over there." "We're already starving," she adds, stepping over to the tree. He holds the shotgun in one hand and keeps it pointed toward her, while he opens the back door with the other. He turns his head over his shoulder to look inside. CD's, a backpack. A few duffle bags, one of which is open to reveal a few cans spilling out. He even sees a few cardboard boxes in the trunk. "You can walk away," she says. "Walk away with no blood on your hands -- " "I'm really gonna need you to be quiet." He turns away from her fully and opens one of the bags. Ammunition. Books in another. Food. "Go back to your family with a little bit of your soul left -- " "Listen, lady -- " "Go back to your family and look them in the eye knowing you did the right thing -- " "Shut up!" he explodes, turning on her, barrel pointing her direction. "Shut the fuck up! Say another fucking word and I will fucking blow you away!" His look dares her to try it. She's smart enough to keep her mouth shut. She'd rather not have Jack and Sam return to both a missing truck and her dead body. But then, a sudden realization hits her. "You've been watching us," she says. The look in his eye tells her she's right. There's no way he just so happened to stumble across their small camp the moment she was alone. "How long?" "Since earlier this morning." "You're sick. You are... fucking sick." “Don’t gotta tell me what I already know.” She has the urge to spit in his face, but she holds back. His finger's still on the trigger, after all. Then, his eyes soften, and he returns to the car. He snatches up one bag, heads back to her spot, and drops it at her feet. She forces herself to say, "Thank you," tears ready to spill over her eyes. As if she's actually fucking grateful. She should've taken out his eye when she had the chance. She watches him -- glares at him -- as he settles in the front seat and turns the keys already in the ignition. Love Ain't For Keepin' plays from the radio as he drives off, fading out once the truck hits the road. --- "All of it?" Jack asks. He stands, in total shock, in the same spot where the truck was parked earlier. He and Sam had no more luck in the woods, and now they have to return to this. The absolute worst case scenario. Rachel hands over the one bag that the man left. Jack opens it up, then pours out the contents. Three measly cans drop to the ground. "That's great," Jack says, his voice dripping with abhorrence. He throws the bag onto the ground. He doesn't want to shout. He really doesn't want to shout, not at her, she doesn't deserve that. "All of it?" he asks, his volume rising. "You let him take all of it, Rachel?" "There was a shotgun to my face," Rachel says, "so yeah, I let him take it." "We don't even have a fucking car!" "What do you want me to do?" They've spent three months building this life -- it wasn't much, but it was enough to get by. The essentials -- food, water, transportation; their loss is definitely the hardest blow. But the books, the music, Sam's workbooks, everything they had that made them feel like actual human beings. Gone. Just like that. Oh, he wants to scream. Vulgar doesn't even begin to describe the lengths he goes to when he gets this heated. He spots Sam standing near a tree, looking at him with wet eyes, and he finds the restraint to hold back. An outburst would just scare her, and you know he's got to be the brave dad. Strong and put together, always, at all times. A true patriarch. He walks away with his hands clasped atop his head. He looks down the road, the direction where the man apparently drove off. Slightly comforted by the fact that there won't be a shouting match, Rachel takes a few steps back until her shoulder nudges a tree trunk, and sinks down to a sitting position, pinching the bridge of her nose. She feels the ground shift next to her when Sam sits by her side. Rachel can't bring herself to make eye contact with her. Logically, Rachel knows it's not her own fault, but that doesn't make her feel better in the slightest. "I'm so sorry, hun," Rachel says quietly. Sam links their arms together and rests her head on her mother's shoulder. "I guess...we can hunt some more." "I guess we're gonna have to." --- Jack and Rachel trail behind Sam as they trudge along the side of the road. Jack absentmindedly knocks around the occasional pebble or stone resting on the road -- his outward rage has simmered down, but he can still feel his anger bubbling, eager to break through the service. When this outbreak started, the plan was different -- get out of the more populated areas, find food, find water. It went well; they'd put together a decent apocalyptic living. Then, a few weeks ago, they decided to head south before winter hit. They didn't have any real destination -- no one state or city -- just somewhere warmer. Illinois winters are brutal enough with adequate shelter and heat. No one's said much the entire walk. Jack finally decides to break the silence. "What'd he look like?" he asks. "You're not gonna find him," Rachel says. "Just tell me what he looked like." "White. Brown hair, brown eyes, a beard. He was the plainest guy ever, Jack, you're not gonna find him." "He didn't have a car, so he had to walk. Right? So he can't be that far." "That's if he was dumb enough to stay put." "Let's hope he was." Jack sighs, can feel his rage boiling up again, so he takes Rachel's hand. "I just thank the Lord we're not buryin' you." This whole walk, he’s felt terrible about earlier, putting her at fault like that. "I had a shot." "And what if you missed? Or... or grazed him? We're talkin' pitbull versus a poodle here... Even if you hit him, all he had to do was pull the trigger a second after you did -- and with those things, doesn't matter how bad his aim is, he wouldn't miss." A tear trails its way down her cheek, but she swipes it away. "I don't want her to look at me like -- " Her voice catches, but she continues. " -- like I completely fucked up any hope we had." "She's just happy she still has a mother." He looks ahead at Sam. A little lady now. She's become much more accepting of their situation in the last month or so, realizing this is how it has to be and they can't change it. That, or she's let apathy take over. --- They've walked for hours. The sun, which was at its highest point when they'd left, has now descended midway into the sky. The Illinois countryside isn't as beautiful as it seems when you've stared at it for hours. The static view of grass and sun and blue sky becomes frustrating after a while. They've traveled along this identical stretch of land, and it seems like they've made no progress. Any breaks from walking are few and far between; Jack wants to cover as much land as possible before the sun goes down, so they can hopefully come across some form of shelter -- a car, a farm, anything. They can't just spend the night out in the open. And so they keep on. After being repeatedly shut down by Jack, Rachel has decided against asking for any more breaks. The bag she carries -- filled with several jugs of water from the forest creek -- digs into her shoulder. To add insult to injury, none of the water's been boiled yet, so she can't even drink it. She's so exhausted. So angry, frustrated, irritated. She looks over at Jack and can tell he feels the same way. He's just too proud to admit it. He wasn't this way before, always hung up on making sure his position as the man of the 'house' is up held. As of three months ago, he's become more authoritative, more of the stereotypical tough guy. In a way, he had no choice but to change. The most interesting thing she's noticed is that he upholds this image more strongly around Sam. She understands why: kids imitate what they see, even kids as old as her. Rachel just doesn't know if she's too keen on the idea of subconsciously training their kid to think fear and emotion are inherently bad. Sam's always looked up to him. Jack played baseball in high school, and he had Sam join the T-ball league when she just a toddler, which eventually evolved into the girl's growing love for softball. Back in the city, she was the pitcher for district leagues and her school's team, racking up trophies during each season, trophies that they unfortunately had to leave behind. Sam and Jack always bonded on that level, and Rachel isn't surprised to see that she’s is taking after some of his new habits. She decides to stop thinking about it too much. Once she does, the weight of the bag feels even heavier than it did before. "I can carry one," Sam offers. Her pace has now fallen into line with her parents'. "I've got it," Rachel says, and she's surprised to find that her small smile comes naturally. "But thank you." Jack has gone a bit further ahead, squinting at a green roadside sign a long ways down the road. "What's that say?" he asks. It's too far away for any of them to read, but once they get close enough, he reads: "Arrowhead Cabins. Five miles. Hey -- " He turns to Sam and Rachel. "Five miles. We can do that. You wanna rest for a bit?" "Please -- " Sam groans, and she plops herself onto the grass. She lies back on the grass, spreading out her arms and legs like a snow angel. --- A much-needed halt in their journey brings them back to their feet about twenty minutes later. The slow, five-mile trek has led them to a seemingly never-ending dirt path snaking into the woods, and a wooden sign announcing their arrival at Arrowhead Cabins and Retreat. Eventually, after ten minutes of dirt and grass and trees, the modest retreat comes into view. Six medium-sized cabins are arranged in a huge circle, and in the middle is a yard of overgrown grass. And to the east, a deck leads toward a small, crystal blue lake. The beautiful water shimmers as the sunlight beats against it, and the Fosters suddenly feel like they've walked into a dream getaway pamphlet. Not a soul in sight. When they get closer, they realize the cabins aren't as pristine as they thought. Some have been stripped of their wood, like someone took an axe to the walls. Broken windows, missing doors, destroyed patios. Something happened here, and maybe it's better if they don't know what. "I'll start at this one," Jack says, once they've reached the first cabin, "and circle my way around." He's decently prepared, with his rifle and a single knife. Rachel still has her pistol too, just in case. Jack stops at the first door, peeks inside. Something about this entire retreat is sufficiently creepy. It's so quiet, the colors too vibrant and beautiful. The swaying grass and picturesque lake juxtaposed with the wrecked cabins that look straight out of a low-budget horror movie. Yet, Jack heads inside anyway. All seems well at first, despite the shards of glass spread across the floor from a broken coffee table. The smell of death hits him quick, and he pulls his shirt over his mouth and nose. Right there, right behind the couch, three bodies lie on top of one another, their heads literally blown clean off. Just bodies that end at the neck. Bits of brain and blood so dark it's almost purple in color are spread across the hardwood. Jack stumbles backward, out the door, nearly colliding with Rachel and Sam. Rachel takes him by the arm to steady him, but he pulls away, leaning over like he's about to retch. "Stay by the grass," he demands. Rachel nods, leading Sam away, and Jack takes a few breaths, summoning up the courage to head back inside. --- The next two cabins are empty, but the final three display a similar scene as the first. He smells the carnage first, and then he sees it -- two to four people, all shot, usually in the head, but a few seem to have taken shotgun blasts to the body. But even those received a stab to the brain. It's massacre-like, a summer getaway gone awry. The last cabin is in the best condition, and the deaths are less grotesque than the others. A man and a woman slain in their bedroom, face down on the floor with bloody holes in their backs and a stab wound on the back of their heads. Jack gives them a kick, but they don't budge. He rifles through the closet -- empty. Then, the bedside table. He finds a pocket bible and a rarely-used moleskine journal. He flips through it -- a few passages of neat writing, and then a smaller section that appeared to be scribbled in a rush. Seth Exit 45A, I-39 Stay east hidden springs. Camp past tree, stay north Then, there's a drawing. A circle with an X through it. Jack reads it over again, closes the journal, and tucks it under his arm. Directions to... somewhere. He continues his look through of the cabin. Not much is ruined, despite a few torn cushions and broken picture frames. The bedroom experienced the worst of it -- if he keeps the door shut, they can just pretend there wasn't a horrific murder in the next room. An extra bedroom toward the rear of the cabin appears practically untouched. He checks everything again -- a bible in the bedside drawer, no clothes in the closet or dresser. The bed should even be big enough for the three of them. The only unsettling detail is the busted window, which has left a perimeter of jagged glass around the frame. Should be nice enough to stay for the night. Instinct tells him they shouldn't stay any longer than that. --- "You guys can sleep in there," Jack says, pointing into the rear bedroom. Rachel and Sam trail him down the hallway, only glancing at the other rooms the cabin has to offer. Bathroom, kitchen, a few hall closets. "Don't go in the other bedroom." They don't ask why. Either they can guess what's happened, or they don't want to know. Sam heads in first and throws herself onto the bed, burying her face in the pillow. "It's so soft," she mumbles. Jack and Rachel smile at her from the doorway. In an instant, Jack is back to business, nodding his head toward the hall. He closes the door halfway after he and Rachel step out. "I don't know what happened here," he says, "but I don't wanna stay long." "What's in the bedroom?" "Two people. A man and a woman. Both shot. Same deal in the other houses, 'cept some had kids. All dead, but they weren't infected. Not that I could tell." "Kitchens and closets were cleared out, too? In all of them?" "Yeah." "Makes sense." Someone hit the jackpot, but apparently couldn't find it in them to spare a few lives. "We're out by tomorrow, then?" "Yeah. Wait, I found this, hold on -- " He heads toward the kitchen, then returns with a journal in his hands. He opens to the page with the odd directions, and she scans it over quickly, muttering the words as she reads. "Hidden Springs," she says. "The forest preserve, south of here -- " "How far, do you know?" "No idea -- and of course the map's gone..." She presses a hand to her forehead in frustration, her other hand on her hip. "We should go." "That's all it said?" "Yeah -- there's other stuff -- " He flips through again. " -- but she's just rambling about shit." "We need to get some kind of... foundation together before we head down there." A car, gas, food -- some kind of livelihood they can rely on. "But we're out by tomorrow. Afternoon at the latest." He takes one last look at the page and closes the journal. So soon after losing it all, they've got something else to hold on to. "I'm gonna see if I can get a fire going out in yard." He moves past her, down the hall and into the living room, and grabs a bag in each arm. "Get some of this water boiling." --- Surprisingly, the kitchen was supplied with a particularly fancy set of dishes and silverware that remained untouched when the place was ransacked. Jack decides to have a little fun with dinner tonight, so he gives the meal a bit more focus on presentation. Charred rabbit squares arranged in the center of the plate, on top of a scoop of baked beans and served with a tall glass of natural Illinois spring water, with all potential bacteria boiled away, of course. All prepared in the makeshift campfire kitchen he fixed up out in the yard. He returns to the cabin with three plates in tow, carrying two on his palms and the other on his arm, like the waiters at those restaurants he could never afford to go to. Sam and Rachel wait patiently at the kitchen table, smirking at his attempt at an extravagant display. "Ladies," he says. He sets all three plates down and takes a seat of his own next to Rachel. "Wow," Rachel says, lifting her fork, "A-plus for presentation." "Thank you," he says with a smirk. He plucks a cube of rabbit onto his fork and takes a bite. "Smokey." "No beans?” She notices that he has considerably less rabbit on his plate, and no beans at all. “Hm?” He looks down at his plate. “Nah, I’ll pass tonight.” “They’re pretty good.” “‘Course they are. I made ‘em.” “Here.” Rachel scoops up some beans onto her spoon. “I’ll pass.” “Come on -- “Rachel, cut it out -- “ She makes airplane noises and moves the spoon toward his mouth. “Open up -- “ she says. Jack tilts his head away -- then, he looks across the table to see Sam snickering as she moves her food around with her fork. “Fine, okay -- “ He takes the bite from Rachel’s spoon. “Mmmm. Amazing.” Rachel looks at him gratefully for playing along, although they both know Sam’s not that naive. Dinner continues on without incident and without much conversation, with Jack, naturally, finishing before both Sam and Rachel. Rachel, however, looks up from her plate about ten minutes in, curiously eyeing Sam for a few seconds. “Not in the mood for rabbit?” Rachel asks. Jack’s head snaps up immediately, and his face falls when he sees her full plate. Rachel’s brow furrows at his change of expression. “Huh? Oh, no, I was just saving it for last,” Sam says. She stabs a piece with her fork, hesitates, and takes a bite. “You alright, hun?” It’s barely noticeable, but Sam’s eyes dart to Jack for just a brief moment, then back to her mother. “I’m fine. Why?” “No reason…” --- "Louisiana State, or Florida," Sam says. After the meal, they’ve moved to the living room, which is adorned with wooden walls and furniture they could only dream of ever owning. Sam and Jack sit on opposite ends of a blue velvet couch, a proud smile stretched across his face. "They had the best softball teams in the country. I think I'd rather go to Florida, though." "Why Florida?" Jack asks. "Because it's Florida, Dad. The freakin' Gators." "That's what I'm talking about, kid -- " He holds out his hand, and she gives him a low-five. "You hear that, honey? Our kid's gonna be a Gator." "A 'gator?" Rachel asks. She's at the opposite end of the room, observing some of the pictures perched atop an elegant brick fireplace. Two parents (according to Jack, the same two people he found in the bedroom) and two children -- a boy and a girl. The photos start when the kids are just babies, and lead up to a snapshot of their high school graduation. "A Florida Gator, yeah," Jack says. "Is that code for something?" Jack laughs. "No, it's not code." The confused look on her face doesn't change. "If you play sports for the University of Florida, you're a Gator," Sam explains. "Or a Lady Gator, but it's stupid to separate them." "How many twelve year olds have already thought about college?" Jack says. "I'll tell you -- not a lot." "I didn't know you wanted to play in college," Rachel says. "I've just been thinking about it a lot," Sam says. "In case things go back to normal. I don't know what I wanna study, though." "Who freaking cares? You're gonna be a Gator, kid. I'm gonna be in the stands decked out. Face paint, jersey, the whole deal. Right, honey?" He waits for her response, but then sees that she's returned her focus to the pictures. "Forget her, she's lame," Jack says to Sam. "This a huge deal, kid." "I have to get in first. And that's if college is even a thing in six years. How's that even gonna work if there's no school now? What if I'm like, 25 and I have to go start at the eighth grade if I wanna get into college?" "Isn't that Billy Madison?" "Kind of. Not really." "I don't know, I hate Adam Sandler." He points a finger at her. "You should, too." He ruffles her hair and stands. "Why don't you go... explore or something? Kids like exploring. Don't go outside, don't go into the bedroom." "What am I gonna explore? The bathroom?" "Yeah, smart ass," he laughs. "They've got a nice plunger, go check it out." He watches her head off, then walks over to fireplace, next to Rachel. He places a hand on her shoulder and examines the pictures along with her. "You alright?" he asks. "Yeah... it's just sad," she says. "I wonder where they are." "The kids?" She nods. "You forget that other people have lives sometimes." "Or we just don't care." "That too.” "Being considerate doesn't get us through the day." He gives her shoulder a squeeze and continues, "Why don't you relax for a little while? I'll keep Sam occupied." “Yeah," she says, “Okay.” She gives the photos one last lingering look, kisses him, then slips her arms around his midsection. It's odd, this leaden feeling in his gut mixed with the warmth in his heart. --- "Is Mom okay?" Sam asks. She and Jack sit on the cabin porch, their legs dangling between the railing and off the edge. They stare at the view -- the vast open field, the reflection of the setting sun glistening off the lake, the birds flying against a background of an orange-blue sky. Like nothing ever happened. "She's alright," he says. "Just scared.” "Me too." "Nothing wrong with admitting it. There's no bravery without fear." "Profound." He grins slightly. "Your grandpa said that to me." "I thought he was a drunk." "I'm sure he didn't make it up." There's a short silence, then he adds, "You were pretty brave earlier." "...I cried." "I can't blame you, the thing was really damn cute. But you did it, that's what matters." "Are you gonna make me do it again?" "I'm not gonna make you. You should do it every once in a while, though... You'll get used to it." "I can't get used to that." "That's what I thought. Everything gets easier with practice.” “I have to practice killing cute little animals… That sounds messed up.” “It is messed up. This whole situation’s messed up, so we adapt.” He looks over at her, smiling. “You’re doing a good job -- I know Mom wants you to stay all little and cute but… “ Without warning, he feels his throat close up. The reaction surprises him, and he tries to play it off before she notices anything’s wrong. “I’m just real proud of you, kid, that’s all I’m trying to say.” The tightness in his throat doesn’t fade, even when he coughs into his fist, so he pats her on the back and stands up. “Long day,” he says simply, and he leads her back into the cabin, taking one last lingering glance at the view that looks back at him. --- Jack isn’t surprised that he can’t fall asleep. He sits up against the headrest between Sam and Rachel, who were out almost the instant their heads hit the pillow. Both their stomachs are filled with what could be their last decently-sized meal for a while, they’ve had enough water to replenish their energy from the long trek, and this is the first time they’ve slept on an actual mattress since the outbreak started. The blankets and pillows are just a bonus. Jack, however, just feels too uneasy. He doesn’t like when things change. Their plan to head south with everything they had is now scrapped -- and so, they have to rely on the directions in this journal, which will hopefully lead them somewhere. A camp, apparently. A camp that could be destroyed, or nonexistent. When they were headed south, there was a tangible goal -- get somewhere warmer. Now, they won’t know where they end up, or if these directions are even valid. To make things worse, they don’t have a vehicle or enough food to make the trip easier. If they even make it at all. He sighs, rubbing his temples. Negative thoughts, negative thoughts, negative thoughts. Push ‘em away. It doesn’t help that this cabin reminds him of a set from a campy horror film, and he can hear the clicking and buzzing sounds of the insects outside. He leans his head against the headboard, closes his eyes. Rachel scoots in closer, rests her head on his stomach. He doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep until his eyes snap open at the sound of footsteps. His body tenses up, his stomach dropping. Sam and Rachel remain on either side of him, fast asleep. Slowly, quietly, carefully, he slides to the foot of the bed. He listens -- doesn’t hear a thing. Then -- there it is. To his right, in the direction of the trashed window. He tiptoes over, grabbing his hunting rifle, which rests against the wall. It’s almost like… a scratching sound. He lifts the barrel of the gun, inches closer to the window, peeks his head out -- Darkness. The moon is hidden behind the trees, leaving the outside pitch black. Jack flips on the flashlight attached to his rifle -- The sight of rotting faces and hissing groans makes Jack’s knees go week. He nearly pulls the trigger, but manages to hold back. About a dozen infected roam idly, the grass so tall it grazes against their knees. But now, they’ve turned toward Jack -- venom dripping from their growls. “Oh, God -- “ he mutters. Behind them, he sees more shadowy figures. So many. “Jack -- “ Rachel starts. “Grab everything -- go! Now!” With record speed, she’s up from the bed and she has Sam by the arm, snatching up whatever bags she sees. Jack sprints right after them, picking up what he can, the flashlight lighting the way to the living room. He opens up that front door and immediately shuts it when he sees an uncountable number of those abominations flooding the yard. Their God-awful noises have increased in volume at the sudden brightness of the flashlight. He squeezes his eyes shut. “The lake,” he says. “What?” Rachel responds in a harsh whisper. “I’ll go out there, distract them, lead ‘em to the lake, and you guys run -- “ “No!” “I’m not arguing about it so you go or you don’t!” This could be a terrible idea, this could be the idea that saves their lives, or this could be the idea that gets him killed but keeps them safe. He’s not about to overthink it -- if he does, he’ll just realize he’s running to his death. “Just go left, toward the path. Don’t stop once you hit the road, just keep going -- “ And that’s all he says. He flings the door open, waving the flashlight like a wild man -- he fires a couple shots at a few who get a little too close. He looks back at the cabin, Rachel and Sam cowering in the doorway. But the infected have turned their attention away from the house and focused all of it on Jack, who’s begun to shout and yell and fire shots. Several infected crowd around the deck, but he turns the barrel in their direction and fires -- they fall to the side, not dead, but taken aback by the power of the shot. He turns, tried to get a look at the cabin, but he can’t see Rachel or Sam, doesn’t know if they ran, doesn’t know if there’s too many infected to make a beeline toward the road. The infected are slow, trudging through the tall grass, so there’s a decent gap between him and the approaching crowd. Where the hell did they even come from? Sweat drips into his eyes, and he swipes it away, shouting some more. “Right here!” He repeatedly flicks the flashlight on and off, on and off, on and off. Their groans almost sound angry, getting lower and lower in pitch. Once they're close enough, Jack pulls the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and pulls the bags off his back, dropping them onto the deck, dives into the lake, then bobs to the surface. They follow him blindly, falling into the water, clawing and biting at nothing. He continues swimming, all the way to the edge of the lake, and he continues to yell and shout to keep their attention. As long as he’s loud and obnoxious as can be, they follow. His eyes have since adjusted to the darkness, and although the yard is still polluted with a decent number of shambling shadows, it has emptied significantly, the infected splashing around wildly in the water instead. And, somewhere out there, he sees two figures sprinting toward the road. Category:Paradise Lost Category:Paradise Lost Issues Category:Issues Category:Pilots